


Sweetheart Deals

by OrsFri



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-04-28 18:43:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5101613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrsFri/pseuds/OrsFri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Arthur meets a lawyer, Francis, who very conveniently happens to embody the stereotypical imagery for his profession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sweetheart Deals

**Author's Note:**

> For frukhalloweenweek 2015 on tumblr.

_What do you get when you cross a lawyer with a demon from hell?_

_Answer: Another lawyer._

-

What do you do, when you're a die-hard young adult delinquent who, sadly, is passed legal age, and is arrested and charged with multiple counts of battery, theft, arson, more theft, suspected drugs trading, and forgery, because your "friends" leaves you for death and runs off without you?

The answer to that, Arthur thinks, depends very much on whether the public defender sitting across you is a smirking Frenchman who eyes you up and down the moment he steps in and proceeds to _slither_ into his seat.

"So, Arthur Kirkland, is it?" Arthur tries not to flinch at the way the lawyer drags out the 'r'. "I've read through your profile. It's very... interesting."

_More like utterly hopeless,_ Arthur thinks sourly. "So how long do you think I'll get, sir?"

The lawyer frowns, but it is the humouring type of frown that adults gives to little brats when they misbehave and are now guiltily staring at their feet. Arthur scowls.

"Who says you're going to jail?" The lawyer pauses. "Oh, by the way, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Mr Bonnefoy, although you may address me as Francis. If you want me to help you, it'll be helpful if you offer any information you believe will help your case."

Arthur shrugs and gestures to the folder. "It's as it seems. I'm guilty."

"Of everything?"

"Of everything."

Francis scrunches his eyebrows and notes it down. Arthur leans back and tries to focus on the tiny little crack across the plaster, but staring at a wall for entertainment can only remain so interesting (read: three seconds, and even that is a stretch) before his eyes wanders back to Francis. He looks too young, his hair free from greying (unless it's a very good dye job) and his skin smooth and firm. Too young, Arthur thinks, to be a professional lawyer. Then again, there's nothing stopping the state from hiring new graduates. Public defenders are not paid well, after all, or they won't be needed.

The scratchings of the pen draws his attention, and Arthur wonders whether such a sharp-nib pen is even _allowed_ in jails. People like him can easily steal it, anyway. It won't be hard; Francis may be older, but he looks like an office person, with suppressed reflexes from hiding behind paperwork all day. If push comes to shove Arthur can probably move fast enough and grab the pen, and maybe he can trade it, or keep it for future use, just in case, because when all is done and he's rotting in jail he shall have a weapon to defend himself -

"That's not something you should tell a lawyer, you know." Francis states _._

Arthur starts, squawking as the sudden movement tilts his chair backwards and he hangs inbetween balance and a bleeding skull; a second of frightful flopping in his stomach before the chair leans back forward. "I hadn't realised I said that out loud," Arthur mutters, struggling to get his palpitating heart under control.

"Of course you hadn't," Francis replies, amused, and resumes writing.

Arthur lets Francis writes for about two seconds before he leans forward and tries to peer at the words. "You're not writing that in right?" At Francis's cocked eyebrow, Arthur adds hastily, "I mean, it won't help my case after all, and you're supposed to _help_ me."

Francis stares at him.

Arthur glares back.

Then Francis sighs and closes his folder. He clasps his hands together, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the table with a soft _thump_. "How desperate are you to _not_ go to jail?"

_What kind of question is that?_ "Very," he replies instead.

"Are you willing to do anything," and Francis waits to let the words sink in, "and I mean _anything_ , for a way out?"

The answer dies in his throat as Arthur feels something hard and smooth nudges against his ankle, and then shifts _up_ , pushing his jeans with it. The leather shoe rubs hard against his skin, and, well, alright. Arthur, he - he has done it a few times. Not with someone as old as Francis - not that Francis is that old - but he's not completely _inexperienced._

Plus, there is always a first time for everything.

"Er." He gulps as the shoe drags _high_ _er._ "Yes."

"Really." The shoe lowers and moves away, but before Arthur can relax Francis hunches over the table, suddenly a lot more intimidating and seemingly much, much bigger. "Even if I tell you that you have to kill everyone here, in this building?"

"Well, I'm not sure how -" At Francis's glare, Arthur quickly amends his answer to a quick, short: "Yes."

"Even your family?"

Arthur shrugs. "I have no family. Disowned and kicked out, you see."

Francis sinks back in his seat. "No qualms, then?" he confirms, crossing his legs.

"Yes. No. Shit, I mean -" He sticks out his tongue. "Yes, that no, no qualms at all."

"That's very good." And then Francis grins, all teeth, and Arthur suddenly realises those teeth are _very sharp_. "My... friends, shall we say, has taken care of things for us, so we can discuss the _real_ plans, without fear of anyone listening in."

Arthur shivers, and glances towards the door. The guards standing there are gone, shadows and all. "What did you do?"

"Oh, the usual; I have to bribe a few officers simply to book a room to talk to you too."

Yes, that certainly makes him feel much more secure, that the man sitting in front of him is dirty (in all sense of the word) rich and underhanded and someone like that has business with a nobody like him, Arthur the delinquent - no longer a Kirkland, no matter what the reports say, and -

"What the hell do you want from me?" Arthur bristles.  _Snarls,_  but carefully, of course. He's not foolish enough to provoke trouble. Yet. "Who are you?"

"Why, I'm Francis Bonnefoy." He raises his arms around him, and Arthur thinks of magicians in circus, gesturing to the crowd after a particularly fascinating trick, arms outstretched for applause. "But I am also," he pauses, and suddenly warm breath is bushing against his face, Francis's face leaning in too close _too close_. "A vampire."

The words hang, linger, and then sinks, slowly and heavily, and Arthur... blanches; struggles to decipher it, the words running through but not really registering in his brain.

"I-" Arthur tries, then tries again. "I, erm."

Francis opens his mouth and _hisses_ _,_ his canines now elongated and very capable of piercing through flesh.

Arthur blinks. Then he blinks again. And every single vampire joke he has ever heard takes a spin around his head.

"So, you er, sparkle?" he blurts.

Francis gapes at him, mouth opening and closing like some stupid goldfish (with a seven seconds memory and most likely floating on its belly because it stuffs itself to death - which Arthur will probably end up as soon, dead that is, with the way Francis's eyebrows are twitching), and then he slaps his right palm across his eyes. "I may have misjudged your intelligence."

"Or maybe it's the media," Francis continues with a loud _harrumph_. "It probably is the media. Such bad influence, giving today's kids the wrong impression of vampires and other creatures and making them walking targets for us to maul to death."

If Arthur isn't so worried about his imminent mortality, he will be laughing and mocking Francis for acting like an old man. As it is, he is very concerned about the 'maul to death' part of the sentence, and shrinks back against his seat, trying fervently to ignore the angry grumbles that are quickly transforming into a string of French expletives.

"Anyway, Arthur." Arthur jumps at the sudden shift in attention. Francis is staring at him in a manner that, if he dare say, predatory, what with the half-lidded eyes and sly smiles. It makes Arthur wants to coil up and huddle in some hole in the ground, preferably twelve feet down the soil and a whole continent - and, and even a planet _away_ from this place. Instead, he shivers and tries not to flinch. "Arthur, do you know what vampires really are?"

Arthur thinks about all the vampire themed chick-flicks that will almost certainly frustrate Francis to the point of hair-tearing, and shakes his head.

Francis sighs, and brushes back his hair, the strands sliding back so smoothly it makes Arthur question whether good hair is an aftereffect of vampirism, or good ol' fashioned hair products. _"_ A vampire," Francis begins, slowly, like he has to dumb it down for Arthur. Arthur reminds himself that punching vampires is bad for his survival, unless, you know, vampires are like sharks - which, actually, are quite similar. They both come when they smell blood, both have frightening, deadly, sharp _teeth_ , and a punch to the nose will most certainly deter them. But when you're trapped in a one-to-one session with an enraged vampire, violence probably isn't a good idea.

"A vampire," Francis continues, "is actually another form of the devil and his demons."

" _Actually_ , I'm an atheist -"

"And!" Francis conveniently ignores the interruption. "And, that means, aside from the blood-feeding aspects and the, argh, burn in the sun parts, we are completely -" A pause. "- Utterly - " Another pause. " - Genuinely, a demon."

The declaration echoes in the room, and Francis stares expectantly at him. Arthur wonders if he's expecting applause. "What about the garlic thing?"

"Blargh!" Francis wrinkles his nose. "It is an abomination for garlic to be found anywhere other than an ingredient in food. It stinks _horribly_."

"So it's a personal preference." The statement comes off strangely flat, and greatly hinges on the edge of judgemental. Arthur regrets it the moment it leaves his tongue.

Francis, however, doesn't seem to mind so much. "Absolutely."

"The mirror thing is not always true too," Francis sniffs. Arthur raises his (rather impressive) eyebrows, eyeing the way Francis's curls - well maintained, shiny, luscious, _styled_ \- make a little bounce at every small gesture, and begins snickering, but forces it down at the lawyer's glare. "It works, but there are rituals you can do to alleviate the 'no reflection' thing. Plus, when you have a _video camera_ , who _needs_ mirrors?"

"But I'm not here to talk about that," Francis announces, slamming both hands on the table. It makes a weird creaking sound, and somewhere in the back of Arthur's mind whimpers alarmingly that the table is made of _metal_. "I'm here to offer you a deal. I'm sure you can guess what kind."

Arthur can, indeed, tell what kind. He swallows, digging at some invisible dirt under his nails. "What do I get out of this?"

Francis makes a vague sweep with his hands. "Oh, I don't know, a clean record, a new identity, out of _jail_." He pauses, making sure to catch Arthur's eye. And then he _smirks._ "Looking at the long-term effect, with your records, you're going to hell when you die anyway. Will you rather try and fight your way through to survive, or prefer a secured spot under me?"

The reply... doesn't really leave much of an option. He will just have to make do with having some leech suck him dry for the rest of his life. Plus, Arthur eyes Francis warily, there is no way he can walk out of this with the information Francis just offers. It's a _death_ _sentence_ the moment Francis chooses him, and Arthur knows that Francis _knows_ he knows.

"Last question." It's a strange sensation, hearing your voice without realising that you are speaking. "Why me?"

Francis leers, and he has already won, hasn't he, because it is painfully clear that Arthur won't turn down the deal. "You're young, you're healthy - I've checked your reports - and you're desperate. These are very desirable conditions for a supplier. You _last_ long enough."

When the quiet drags on long enough, Francis clasps his fingers together; it makes a soft cracking sound, so surprisingly crisp for someone like Francis with his image, composed and elegant and oh so noble, that it seems like a slip up on the violence that must have come alongside Francis's kind, filled with brutal years and bloody instincts. "What is your decision?"

"I -" He manages to choke out. "Why not?"

"So it's a deal?" Francis's voice sails smooth and slimy, slithering up his chest and constricting around his throat, like a noose, and Arthur is trapped, he's -

Arthur is trying to _breathe_ past the lump in his throat. "Yes."

Francis's teeth are sharp and glints when he grins. "Good."

A flash of light, and Francis lunges.

- 

_What's the difference between a vampire and a lawyer?_

_Answer: One is a blood-sucking parasite, the_ _other is a_ _monster_.


	2. Untitled Sequel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sequel of some sorts. Basically a means to explore the backstory a little more, and do some world-building.
> 
> Warnings for mentions of past-relationship, and blood.

“I want to smoke,” Arthur says, digging his fingers into his pocket.

It’s empty, but he can still feel the rusty ashes there, remnants of the cigarette pack that Francis throws it down into the river with a flourish and dramatically declare Arthur banned of all carcinogen or atherosclerosis-inducing goods.

“Chew some sweets,” Francis replies, “you need to _last_ , remember?”

The cold exhale brushes against his skin and makes his hair stands. Arthur shudders as Francis draws near, lips pressing against the back of his neck, and it’s so cold, so cold. The stench of the dead lingers, even if they don’t rot and cover themselves up with expensive cologne and sprays a mist of tan. The mouth tastes of iron tangs and bitter stinks, just a hint of it, but it’s still there, and Arthur wonders just how people find having a frigid block of a body pressed against them _hot_.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t have cravings,” he argues. Francis’s nose nuzzles at the soft spot between neck and shoulders, shifting higher up to rest on his pulse and - oh. “You’re hungry already? You just fed yesterday.”

“Indulge me.” Francis pauses. “You know, I’ve met a Kirkland before, many years ago. Probably some time in the seventeenth century. His blood tastes splendid as well.”

“Really.”

“Yes, really,” he says, and Arthur feels teeth pressing on his skin. The bloodsucker is _biting_ him without any intention to break skin, what the fuck - “A Scottish guard, fiery and stubborn with some very tantalising muscles.” A sharp inhale. “I loved him. I still do.”

Oh. “I’m sorry - fuck, give me a warning!” Francis’s bites hurt, and it hurts damn well, because the neck is sensitive and the skin is thin, nerve endings branching and picking up on every press of _blunt_ teeth pushing and breaking through skin to hit flesh and vessels. The smell always hit last, acrid and metallic and makes Arthur nauseous and just that tad frightened about how much blood he’s losing. Francis don’t bite that deep because he doesn’t want Arthur to _die_ , but it still hurts, sharp pulses spreading across his skin down into flesh, and he can’t breathe, doesn’t _dare_ to breathe, in case the heavings make it worse and Francis’s teeth rips too deep and -

And then Francis is dabbing at the holes, licking up all remaining droplets. “You’re panicking,” he mutters, “I thought you’ve gotten used to it?”

“Mental preparation goes a long way.”

“Sorry. Talking about the past makes me emotional.”

He doesn’t sound sorry at all, Arthur thinks. Instead, he bites his lips and glances back at Francis. In the moonlight, it casts pretty shadows across Francis’s face, accenting all his angles and edges and suddenly he looks so very _gaunt_. “Are you ok?” Arthur asks before he can stop himself.

Francis peers at him from the corners of his eyes and smiles, lips curving on Arthur’s neck still. “Why won’t I be?” he replies, chuckling.

The two tiny puncture wounds on his neck heals quickly, the skin knitting together after whatever catalyst in Francis’s saliva works its magic to boost cell growth. Vampires are good at cleaning up their acts, Francis says that one time, after Arthur rubs at the raw skin. It’s how they manage to avoid being discovered over the centuries.

Francis throws a scarf around him. Arthur vaguely recognises it as the colourful knitted one Francis has told him he bought on a whim while on a trip to Bali. _When_ is the trip, Francis doesn’t specify. “I’m no longer a Kirkland, though.”

“It doesn’t matter if you acknowledge the title or not.” He wraps the scarf once, twice around Arthur’s neck. “The blood still flows in you.”

 _Ah._ “It’s been years since. The blood is diluted. Mixed.”

“Don’t underestimate bloodlines, my dear.” The scarf is twisted and arranged neatly, a knot right under his chin. Arthur doesn’t flinch when Francis leans in and press a chaste kiss on his lips. “I would know. I’ve seen enough ancestors and descendants and tasted their blood.”

Francis’s face is a broken smile and tired eyes. It makes Arthur wonders, how Francis can still bear to live, after all the snippets of happier times and sorrowful memories and pure, unadulterated terror that are shared, inbetween their more intimate moments, soft and whispered in tones that sound so hollow, so __empty__ , and it is in those quiet moments that Arthur can truly believe and _feel_ Francis’s age and knows so well that Francis is dead, utterly and throughly and figuratively and literally; all the _-ly_ s in the world to describe a single _soulless_.

“Tell me about them,” Arthur mutters, and in the empty room the sound is startlingly loud, bouncing off walls and swirling in the air.

Francis smiles. 

**Author's Note:**

> HAHAHAHA I'm never doing this again.
> 
> sweetheart deal - an unusually favourable transaction, contract, or other arrangement(s), usually due to suspicious connections/relations, and tends to be mutually beneficial at the expense of third parties.
> 
> public defender - a lawyer appointed to represent people who cannot afford to hire an attorney.
> 
> The lawyer jokes are from [here](http://www.corsinet.com/braincandy/jklaw.html).


End file.
